Chapter 1

Gazing down from the church’s monstrous crucifix, the wooden Christ loomed over Nana’s funeral mass like a despondent parade balloon. His sad eyes seemed to search the pews for some small comfort and found Joe seated beside the aisle in the second row.

Light me a cigarette would you Joe? Hold it to my lips so I can smoke it.

Jesus didn’t smoke, thought Joe. He’d indulged the inner voice for so long that it had a sense of autonomy. In his current state even his thoughts were suspect.

The scent of summer rain permeated the normally fetid air and migrating clouds shuttered the church in shadow, then light, then back to shadow. The sounds of rustling mourners, their coughs and murmurs, echoed up to the vaulted ceiling. Sweat ripened into beads on Joe’s forehead and his sutured wrists throbbed in a dull rhythm. He felt unmoored from the long-familiar surroundings; the faded, rose-colored carpet, the Stations of the Cross in stained glass, even the looming Christ, his melancholic confederate since childhood, had all turned strange. The dark-wooded casket appeared rough and unfinished, like something cobbled together in an old frontier town. And it was huge—large enough for two Nanas. Or one of him.

Forty-eight hours ago, Joe woke up in a motel tub, marinating in a cold broth of bathwater and blood. He should have been dead or helplessly close to it but had felt charged instead. Lifting his hands from the murk, he’d examined the puffy wounds with a detached curiosity, as if the previous night’s panic had been drained from his body along with the blood. That preternatural calm had guided him through his visit to the hospital where he’d acted with the confidence of a fictional spy, submitting false identification during admission, watching his wrists get sutured as if they were the sleeves of an old jacket, then waiting for the opportunity that he knew would come, to slip away before he could be questioned or detained. He’d wandered for hours like a ghost through a dreamscape, then stood undetected outside the funeral home for the duration of Nana’s wake. When he returned home early this morning the apartment was suspiciously empty, and as he put on his navy-blue suit and slicked back his hair, the irony of prepping for a funeral had been palpable.

Wait—you think we’re dead?

Probably in a coma, thought Joe. He imagined his body still lying in the motel tub or hooked up to machines in a hospital room. All of this could be a vivid illusion meant to ease him into the afterlife, like a goldfish kept in a plastic bag before being released into the aquarium. It would explain why he no longer needed sleep or blood. Or why he hadn’t spoken to a soul since Rudy called to tell him that Nana was gone.

You ditched your phone with the step van.

I’ve been sitting here since six a.m. and nobody’s even looked at me, thought Joe. Father Durant had yet to come over and offer his condolences and the pews had filled without a word from anyone, including his family who had materialized beside him with the incongruity of a dream. His mother normally kept her distance, but Jenny would have insisted on knowing where he’d been. He was afraid to turn his head and find a stranger seated next to him, or worse, his sister acting like one.

Sunlight blanched the carpet in front of the casket, which beckoned like a welcome end to years on death row. Joe floated up from the pew and into the aisle, ready to enact the dream’s finale. A hush fell over the church as he moved forward, reinforcing his supposition, and he arrived at the casket with only the sound of blood pounding in his ears. The dark wood was varnished but lusterless and his fingers hovered over the lid as if checking a stove burner. He imagined his corpse in its navy suit and hair slicked back, his eyes shut and mouth set. If the casket was empty, he would climb inside and let the darkness close over him. Joe opened the lid with both hands and gazed down between his outstretched arms. Below lay Nana, painted and powdered and stuffed into a lime-green dress he’d never seen before. His heart clenched like a white-knuckled fist, as if he’d forgotten that she was dead. He wasn’t dreaming or in a coma. An arm slid around his waist and he buckled; Jenny leaned into him, tightening her embrace. He glanced up at the altar where Father Durant stood with his mouth agape.

Whoops.

Joe looked down at Nana again. “That’s an awful dress.”

Jenny pressed her face into his shoulder. She put a hand on his arm and they gently closed the casket. “C’mon Nash,” she said.

He let himself be guided back to the second row like a confused invalid and glanced out at the sea of pitying faces. There wouldn’t be half this many people at tomorrow’s Mass, especially without him and Nana. Good for her, thought Joe. He would have to kill himself just before Easter to score a crowd this size.

Joe’s mother eyed him warily as they approached, which made him want to walk straight down the aisle and out of the church. Believing he’d unburdened her of his existence, he had doubled down and humiliated her instead. She reached for him, as if to drag him into the pew, then lowered her arm as he stepped aside and let Jenny enter first. Joe sat down and Jenny clutched his hand to prevent him from creating another spectacle. Then he noticed that she had a similar death grip on their mother’s hand.

Oh, that’s right, they lost Nana too.

Seated side by side in repose, the mother-daughter resemblance was a revelation. People always claimed that his little sister was a young version of their mother, but Joe had never seen it. Jenny’s bleached bob had new, ice-blue highlights and she’d added a piercing to her brow to go with the thin loop in the left side of her nose. Thankfully the tattoos that peeked from the sleeves of her cardigan hadn’t spread to her neck and face.

His mother stared vacantly ahead like an Indian elder who had survived her tribe. Her hair had the reddish tint of a home dye kit and was gathered loosely off one shoulder in Nana’s silver rose barrette. Joe wondered when his mother had claimed it and whether she’d already adopted Nana’s hairstyle before then. Nana had worn the barrette all the time and seeing it infused him with a momentary sense of belonging. Then he realized his mother must have forgotten that it had been a gift from him.

Father Durant flapped the sleeves of his robe like an earth-bound bird fighting for balance. Joe lifted his gaze to the crucifix again. If you died for my sins, he thought, then why am I still carrying them around like a basket of rocks?

Don’t pick on Jesus because we’re not dead.

Joe stared at the hymnbooks shelved along the back of the pew, which appeared to be actively congealing. He didn’t give a shit about Jesus. He would miss Sundays with Nana, not church. Sometimes they’d attended the late Mass because he was hung over, and sometimes they’d had a guest star, like Jenny or Rudy, and most times they’d stopped at Casey’s Diner on the way home where Joe would order the hot dogs and Nana would drink coffee and steal his fries, but every Sunday, barring impassable weather, they had walked the half-mile from her house to Saint Pat’s. Nana had been a cafeteria Catholic, cherishing community and the Eucharist while ignoring select edicts from the celibate cabal in Rome. Joe thought Jesus had some good advice about living an ethical life, but his worst day revealed humanity rather than redeemed it.

Jenny raised their clasped hands to her face and wiped away tears, holding Joe’s bandaged wrist within a glimpse of exposure. Then she lowered her arm and gave his hand a squeeze. He squeezed back, chilled by the sudden recognition that his scars would mark him as an emotional hazard, warning others to keep their distance and putting those he loved on notice. Even Rudy would be cautious with his words. Joe knew then that he had to finish the job. His mind flashed back to the motel tub and his murderous reflection leering from the spout with bared teeth and wild eyes. He’d carved his wrists with a remarkable steadiness and watched again as his flesh separated like warm bread. He could almost smell the pungent blood, pulsing from the wound. The pain had been rapturous—it couldn’t hurt enough.

A wail erupted from the front pew, injecting a throb into Joe’s temple. Aunt Tilly was mourning as if on a game show and his leg jounced with nervous energy, eager for a long run. It was unfathomable that Tilly and his mother were sisters. This act hadn’t played at the hospital.

How would you know?

I was there, thought Joe. Until he wasn’t. Until Nana’s vigil began and he returned to delivering packages, leaving her to die alone. Joe bowed his head and closed his eyes and recalled their last shared moment, before Nana’s lucidity had turned intermittent. He’d sat on the edge of her hospital bed as they shared a box of candy that he’d smuggled into her room. Her image arose without effort; the long white hair framing her face and the lines around her eyes, crinkled tight in a conspiratorial smile. If chocolate caused breast cancer Nana wouldn’t have chosen to live without it. The memory of her dark eyes shone so vividly he could feel their warmth.

Silence.

Joe sat up and opened his eyes. The church was empty. Jenny, his mother, Tilly—all gone. The morning sun had moved on, leaving faint shadows, and the air no longer smelled of rain. Something stirred behind him and he turned to see a few elderly parishioners seated at the back of the church. A woman rose and crossed herself then shuffled out. The others avoided eye contact as Joe searched their faces, not recognizing any of them. He couldn’t believe he’d slept through the mass exodus of the congregation. Or that Jenny had left him here to sleep. A soft, steady thump drew his attention back to the front. The casket was gone, and a woman sat on the altar with her legs crossed at the ankle, swinging them back and forth against the wood. She was dressed in navy pants and a silk blouse with her long white hair gathered over the shoulder in a silver barrette.

Nana.

Joe went rigid, seized by a sickening mistrust of his senses. Not real. She wasn’t real. He was afraid to move or speak, unsure that the empty church wasn’t part of his hallucination. His previous delusion of a coma-induced dream suddenly seemed like a grievous error of judgment, as if indulging that had led to this, the terrifying power of an unhinged mind. Refusing to take another lunatic stroll to the altar, Joe sat back and watched the phantom Nana methodically scan the empty pews from one side of the church to the other. She appeared twenty years younger, especially compared to the painted husk he’d seen in the casket. Her gaze reached the far end of the third pew then turned back, moving in his direction along the second pew. She paused at the empty spot two seats away from his and her face softened into what seemed a resigned affection. Not just younger; this Nana was prettier, even a bit glamorous. His gut tightened as her gaze shifted closer and she stared at the empty space beside him, her expression brightening. When Nana finally turned to Joe, his hand shot up in an awkward wave. She stared right through him with an amused smile then skipped over the aisle to the other side of the church.

“Hey!”

Nana’s head stopped and tilted toward the sound of his voice. Her eyes closed and opened as if exiting a trance then landed on Joe and went wide. “Joey? Oh honey, you’re not dead too? Oh! Oh! Did you die too, sweetheart?”

Joe shuddered and touched his chest. This time the possibility hadn’t occurred to him. “I-I don’t know.”

Nana waved him up to the altar with both hands.

Joe sighed and hauled himself out of the pew, imagining the aghast, real-world congregation watching him make another spectacle of himself. He slowed as he neared the altar, grasping for some logic to Nana’s uncanny appearance. She pulled him close and brushed the straw bangs from his eyes—his hair was no longer slicked back.

“I just saw you in the pew,” said Nana, scanning him up and down. Then she stared at his feet.

Joe followed her gaze to the drops of blood on the floor. He turned his hands over; the cuffs of his shirt were dark crimson.

She clasped his arm and pushed back the sleeve. The bandage and stitches were gone—bloody, pulpy flesh curled from the razor’s path. Nana’s face collapsed as if she’d been stabbed in the stomach. “Oh, Joey.”

Joe wrenched his hand away and staggered from the altar. He’d seen that expression on her face before, a long time ago. His fractured mind had regurgitated the memory and repurposed it to cast judgement on him. Groping his scalp with both hands, Joe searched for a peach-like groove to dig his fingers into and tear his skull apart. Everything was so vivid. But it wasn’t real. His wrists weren’t bare. The stitches had not come out. His wounds did not look like…this.

“Wait,” said Nana, her eyes narrowing. “Thanks be to God. You’re breathing.” Her tongue clucked. “Joseph Nash, what have you done?”

“What have I done? You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I am dead,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t,” said Joe, putting his hand up. “No offense, but don’t.”

Nana crossed her arms. “Don’t what?”

“You’re not real,” he said. “I refuse to argue with a hallucination.”

“Don’t be rude. I’m not a hallucination.”

Joe squeezed his eyes shut for a ten count then reopened them.

Halluci-Nana scowled at him. “I suppose they’re not real either,” she said, nodding toward the rear of the church. “Or are we both hallucinating them?”

He glanced back at the weary congregants. One man rocked in the pew as if he were in a psych ward. “I’m hallucinating you,” said Joe. “I’m hallucinating them. I’m hallucinating you hallucinating them.”

Nana called out over his head. “You can stop praying everyone, my grandson has become omnipotent.” She held out her arms and admired the sleeves of her blouse. “Thanks for my clothes, they fit perfectly.”

“You don’t understand hallucination,” said Joe. “I’m not choosing any of this. Be glad my mind didn’t put you in that green dress.”

“What green dress?”

Joe felt fresh blood drip from his fingers. “The one you’re wearing in the casket.”

“Nonsense,” said Nana. “The only green dress in my closet is that dreadful thing Tilly gave me for Christmas last year. I’m not getting buried in that.” She stared at Joe who grimaced and glanced at the floor. “God help us,” she said, “why didn’t you or your mother choose my outfit? Was the wake open casket?”

Joe covered each wrist with the opposite palm, compressing the wounds. He expected a Nana sprung from his conscience to accuse him of abandonment, not to throw his mother under the bus too. But she was right. There was no way his mother picked out that green dress. Maybe claiming the silver barrette was all that she could manage.

“My Tilly,” said Nana, shaking her head with a wistful smirk. “Buys me a dress I wouldn’t get caught dead in, then makes a liar out of me by stuffing my corpse into it.” Her gaze drifted back to the drops of blood on the floor. “Did you really do that to your wrists?”

“Yes.”

Nana’s eyes lingered on the blood. Then she lifted her head and jutted out her chin. “Guess a number between one and ten.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Nana.”

Her chin remained jutted.

Joe rolled his eyes. “Seven.”

The chin dropped and her face clouded.

“What?  I’m right?” He went to squeeze his temples and was confronted with his blood-stained hand.

“I am not a hallucination Joseph. I belong here—you don’t.”

“Maybe I did die,” said Joe, “right here in the church. That could be my dead body you saw slumped in the pew.”

“No,” said Nana. “You’re breathing, which means you’re still attached to it.”

“You can see me breathe?”

She nodded. “When you stop breathing it becomes glaring in someone who still does. Jesus said that not breathing was the biggest adjustment for new arrivals.”

Joe glanced up at the wooden Jesus, who was gracious enough to remain silent. Then he spun around and strode down the aisle toward the doors of the church. He had zero interest in meeting his unhinged version of Jesus.

“Where are you going? We have to get you back to your body.”

Joe halted and took a deep breath. If this wasn’t real, then he wasn’t escaping anything; he was marching deeper down the rabbit hole. He turned and faced the stain-glass windows along the side of the church. “What else did Jesus say? Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” said Nana. “Purgatory, I guess. When Jesus told me that your grandfather had moved on, I didn’t think to ask where to.”

Joe never knew his grandfather, who’d already had Alzheimer’s when Joe was a toddler. “What did Jesus say about Uncle Sammy?”

“I didn’t ask about Samuel,” said Nana.

Uncle Sammy died when Joe was eight, two years after his father had left. The memory of that day always began with Nana calling Joe from the porch as he’d stood outside the shed window, waiting for her to discover them both. When she found him and asked why he hadn’t responded, Joe glanced at her then peered through the dirty glass. He remembered the violent thrum of his heart as she squeezed his shoulders, still not knowing, then her horrible gasp as her fingers dug into his flesh and she swam past him into the shed, to tackle her son’s body. Unable to free him, Nana clamored up the small stepladder and carved at the rope with hedge clippers. She looked as if she’d been stabbed in the stomach, the anguish on her face expressing years of struggle beyond the enemy rope. Joe entered the shed like a pilgrim; the tight space smelled of old grass and gasoline and amplified Nana’s haggard breathing. He pushed the wheelbarrow forward and waited for the rope to snap. When it did, Uncle Sammy dropped into a half-empty bag of peat moss with a rush of air. Nana had looked down with alarm then at Joe with a weak smile.

Joe walked back to the altar. He’d never told Nana how long he’d stood outside the shed window. How he and Uncle Sammy’s eyes had met through the dirty glass and exchanged a silent, ineffable understanding. How he’d watched his uncle climb up the stepladder, slip the rope over his head and take his sadness out of the world. Joe was still too ashamed to tell her, even now that she was dead—hallucination or not.

Nana took his hands and tried to rub the blood from his palms with her thumbs. “When?”

Joe fought the urge to pull away. “Two nights ago,” he said. “After you died.”

Nana’s face turned away, as if struck by his words. She waved her thumbs over his wounds, desperate to heal but afraid to touch. Her hand trembled as she swept the hair from his eyes again and searched his face with desperation.

Joe eased out of her grasp and covered his wrists again. He’d always been an emotional hazard.

Nana closed her eyes then slowly opened them, staring through him as if she were blind. “Your body is still there,” she said, scanning the second pew. “It looks like you’re sleeping.”

“Great,” said Joe. “My mother was already thrilled to see me.”

Nana closed and opened her eyes again. “Don’t start. Your mother wants to see you.”

“Hey, I get it,” said Joe. “I must look like the guy who walked out on her. I wouldn’t want to see me either.”

“You don’t look like your father and your mother wants to see you,” said Nana tersely, as if that were the final word on the subject. “Now think Joey, we have to get you back into your body. What did you do before you got here?”

“I got up and opened the casket,” said Joe. “All the nice people who watched me do that are probably listening to me have a nice chat with my dead grandmother. I’m guessing they’re only hearing my side of the conversation, like I’m on the phone.”

Nana scowled. “You’re not hallucinating. What did you do right before you came here?”

Joe assumed that opening the casket had been the triggering episode, but there had been a moment of sanity before he went batshit the second time.

Third time, if you count the motel.

“I closed my eyes and focused on my last good memory of you,” said Joe. “Then I noticed the silence and opened my eyes and the church was empty. When I saw you, I realized that I’d lost my mind.”

Nana’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe focus on someone who’s alive this time.”

Just click your heels three times, Dorothy.

Triggering himself out of psychosis did sound fanciful, but perhaps this Nana represented an intuitive part of his mind, leading him out of madness. Besides, he’d lost his mind. What else did he have to lose? Closing his eyes, Joe recalled Jenny’s profile with her new highlights and the new brow piercing. He concentrated for another ten count then opened one eye.

Nana waved him away with both hands. “Go sit in the pew and try again.”

Tell her.

Joe wandered back to the second row and sat down. It’s not really her, he thought.

Say it.

“I’m sorry Nana.”

“It’s okay honey. Just don’t come back.”

“No,” said Joe. He gripped the back of the pew with both hands. “I’m sorry I wasn’t with you at the hospital. When you died.”

Nana’s shoulders sagged and she gazed at him with a sad affection. “You were my best friend, Joey. You’re always with me.”

He slumped back in the pew and stared at the bloody wrists in his lap. Nana hadn’t kept her distance and he’d punished her for it. It was supposed to be safe for him to go once she had died, to save her the heartache, but she’d been paying a price all along. He’d always been an emotional hazard and if this was purgatory, he would return soon. “Goodbye, Nana.”

“I love you, sweetheart. Don’t come back.”

He closed his eyes and the image of his mother came unbidden, her hair styled like Nana’s in the silver barrette and her vacant expression, staring into the distance. Several seconds passed before Joe heard a faint sob then a cough then Father Durant’s voice speaking from the far end of a long tunnel. Every inch of skin tingled and pricked as if his whole body had lost circulation, not just a foot or an arm. Joe winced at the stiffness in his neck but kept his eyes shut and listened to the muted cacophony of the church, inhaling the scent of summer rain. Then he panicked and glanced down at his wrists. His sleeves were clean. The casket was back. He sat up and squeezed Jenny’s hand.

(Novel in progress)